Mad Stacks: Story Collection Box Set

by Scott Nicholson

  “You will. He’s a personal friend who happens to owe me a few favors.”

  “I don’t roll that way, Mr. Wilhite.” Ray Ray wiped at his mouth. “I believe in stealing fair and square, on my own terms.”

  “What’s the difference? You’re going to burn it down anyway.”

  “Because it was my idea. I don’t share the glory and I don’t share the wealth.”

  Pride. The Devil was going to lose this man’s soul because of simple human pride.

  Ah, what’s the use? What good is another arsonist in Hell, anyway? I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Heh. Fish to fry. That’s funny.

  “Fine, Mr. McEelvy. Good luck with that little endeavor. I’m sorry the Beaulahville Volunteer Fire Department is going to be on the scene within three minutes and your ‘total loss’ is going to turn into a marshmallow roast. Be proud, my friend. Be proud.”

  Ray Ray’s hands were trembling a little, and it was obviously time for some liver fortification. The Devil left him to his spiked tea and creamed corn and turned his attention to the real reason he’d come.

  By now, Betty had swapped out the pot of infested pudding and proffered a foil-covered pie. The Devil grinned. “Just like Mom used to make?”

  “She’s in the bosom of the Lord, God rest her soul,” Betty said.

  Actually, the Devil knew otherwise, because Betty’s mother was currently wearing nothing but gasoline while wading through a pit of bubbling tar. But the rules of engagement required the Devil to keep such information to himself. All he could do was dig in his usual bag of tricks. “I suppose you’re going to lie about your maggot pudding, and that’s why you’ve hidden it away. Because you’re so proud.”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “The Reverend’s coming, and he’s a vegetarian, so he can’t have maggots.”

  Maynard Gray was indeed making his way along the buffet, picking over the greens to see if any of them bore the sheen of fatback. He turned up his nose at the fried chicken, skipped over the sliced pork shoulder, and barely even glanced at the bratwurst and sauerkraut. His plate contained only a pile of plain mashed potatoes, a roll, and three pieces of celery.

  The Devil reached under the table and pulled out a dish of his own making. Jesus wasn’t the only miracle worker to have graced the pages of the New Testament. And the Devil was that book’s sole survivor. He’d learned a thing or two along the way.

  “Here you go, Reverend,” The Devil said.

  The Preacher lifted the lid and peered down at the plate. “Deviled eggs?” he said, in a sonorous voice befitting his calling.

  “Made them myself,” the Devil said.

  “They look mighty delicious, but I don’t eat meat.”

  “These aren’t flesh,” the Devil said.

  “Well, eggs count as meat,” the Preacher said.

  “Technically, it’s not born yet, so it’s an embryo and not flesh,” the Devil said.

  “Are you trying to make a pro-choice argument?”

  “I’m all about choice,” the Devil said.

  The Preacher gave a tolerant, patient smile. “Are you a member of the congregation?”

  The Devil waved to the sign that stood by the road. “I was just passing through and I saw your sign. It said ‘Come 4 bread, stay 4 ever,’ so how could I resist?”

  The Preacher nodded as if he’d never considered the message was an invitation. In the Devil’s vast experience, churches loved to recruit, but they didn’t really want to strain the resources. The ideal parishioner mailed in tithes and only showed up for service on Christmas. All that talk about leading souls to the Lord was just another type of pride—built on body count, but ultimately measured by the bottom line.

  “Are your vegetarian principles based on health reasons or moral reasons?” the Devil asked.

  “Every decision is based on morality,” the Reverend said. “Even if it’s for your health.”

  “So your position’s supported by verse?”

  “The Book of Leviticus. ‘Ye shall eat neither blood nor fat.”

  Ah, the Old Testament book with its restrictive guidelines where people tended to pick and choose as it befit their various ideologies and sociopolitical needs. Its proscriptions had been used for or against drinking, homosexuality, working on Sundays, and the eating of meat, depending on the whims of the moment. But its original purpose had been as a cookbook for the priests.

  “I know,” the Devil said. “But Leviticus also instructs not to cut your hair roundwise or shave your beard, yet you have done both.”

  The Preacher’s eyes narrowed, like an animal suspicious of being cornered. “For it is written, the Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  “That has been written, true; but never in the Holy Bible.”

  “Let he who is without stones cast the first sin.”

  “Do yourself a favor, Reverend. Stick to the high spots. For God so loved the world, yadda yadda yadda. Your audience is going to be drowsy from all this food and they might doze off.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Like what happened in Bible College recitals. You remember.”

  “The memory of the righteous is pearls before swine.”

  “That verse you were supposed to memorize. The one written on the back of your hand? That was a good one, the way you clasped your hands like your were praying. Until the instructor caught you.”

  “You’re—”

  “Yes. The one your precious Creator said was the master of this world.”

  The Reverend didn’t seem surprised. “I figured you’d catch up to me sooner or later. ‘Blessed are those who are promiscuous because of righteousness.’ You can ruin me now, strip me of the cloth, and embarrass me in front of my congregation, but you’ll never get back the four hundred and twenty-seven souls I’ve delivered unto salvation in the meantime.”

  The Devil winced. “That many, huh?”

  “I take pride in the Lord’s work. That’s why I’ve studied so hard.”

  “But you can do better.” The Devil held out a deviled egg. “Eat this, and I promise you won’t misquote a single verse ever again. You’ll have your own television ministry, a best-selling set of Bible study guides, a fund-raising arm for Christmas charities. And need I bother mentioning that it’s all tax free?”

  “Ah, but how much profit does a man make if he inherits the wind but sells his own soul?”

  “You misquoted again, but the answer is roughly thirty-seven million and change.”

  Betty, who was wrapping foil over a few abandoned dishes, hollered, “Fifteen minutes until showtime, Reverend!”

  The Reverend Maynard Gray glanced at his watch. “No man knows the hour, except the Apostle Rolex.”

  “It’s only an egg. Besides, it’s already dead.”

  “Whosoever shall believeth in Him shall not parishioner, but have ever ready batteries.”

  “Then perhaps you’d like to try the tater salad?”

  “Man does not live by bread alone, but by the biscuits of the Lord.”

  “Isn’t that ‘donuts’?”

  “You need to crack the Good Book now and again, Mr. Devil.”

  “You’re proud of the Lord’s work. But wouldn’t you be prouder if you got more credit for it?”

  “Verily. Pride goeth before a fall.”

  “Actually, it’s ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.’”

  “For Jesus said, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan.’ You’re cutting in line.’”

  The Devil put the egg back on the tray. Maybe he should have sprinkled the paprika so that it looked like the face of the Virgin Mary. But Maynard was Protestant and would probably think it was Angelina Jolie, Hillary Clinton, or some other sign of the Apocalypse, and that would send him rocketing off in a spastic fervor that would probably win a few more converts.

  “We’ll meet again,” the Devil said to the Reverend. But it might take a while. No one knew the hour, except maybe God, and He was keeping it to Himself. For n
ow, the Devil had had a bellyful of these goodly people.

  The Devil walked past the tables where Betty Benson was busy squirreling away Ima Jean’s tater salad, perhaps wanting to do an in-depth analysis of its ingredients. He waved to Ray Ray McEelvy, who sat under a tree with his tie loosened, sipping loaded lemonade and playing with his cigarette lighter. The Preacher had taken the stage and was checking the microphone with a booming “Good evening, Brothers and Sisters! Come and gather around the supper table of God, for man does not live by bread alone, but by the donuts of the Lord.”

  A half dozen “hallelujahs” echoed in unison while one person belched loudly.

  The Devil glanced at the sky. “You win this round, Father.”

  The Voice boomed in response and cracked across the clouds like thunder though the Devil was the only one who heard. “See how wonderful are those I’ve created in my image? For I give them free will, and still they choose the path of righteousness.”

  The Devil paused. “Do I detect a little slice of pride, Father?”

  No answer, except for the Reverend’s amplified misquotations in the background and the whisper of traffic on the distant highway.

  The Devil grinned as he walked down the dusty dirt road under the Georgia sun. Armageddon wasn’t so far off, and if that battle was lost, well, he’d still have the world, only with a lot fewer of these holier-than-thou types around. And not an angel food cake in sight.

  That would make him mighty proud. Mighty proud, indeed.

  The End

  Missing Pieces Table of Contents

  Master Table of Contents

  ###

  APPLE HEAD DOLLY

  By Scott Nicholson

  An orange.

  A freakin’ orange.

  Willard rummaged in the stocking one more time, just to be sure. Times were tough all over, especially in the disconnected little corner of the world known as Windshake, North Carolina, and even the mountain folk who prided themselves on independence still had to drive to Walmart for their toilet paper and the Goodson Paper Mill for their paychecks. The recession was something the old-timers complained about around the General Store’s wood stove, but it was mostly something wrote up in the newspapers, and Willard had never been much of a hand at reading.

  Still, an orange? Nothing else?

  “Something the matter, Willard?” Daddy asked.

  “Not really.”

  Daddy was sharpening the chainsaw blade, running the file between the grooves. Daddy had a tough time of it because one arm ended in a nub between his elbow and his wrist.

  Momma griped when he did mechanic work on the kitchen table, but as Daddy liked to say, if you couldn’t fix it yourself, you ought not eat it. Willard never figured out what that meant, but Daddy said it like there was no room for argument.

  Grampap was asleep in the ragged recliner, his head tilted back and his mouth open. His teeth were in the jar beside him, and a strand of drool trailed down onto his filthy longhandles. He snored, and the noise fell in rhythm with the rasping of Daddy’s file. Now Willard understood why they called it “sawing wood.”

  “I got a dolly,” Sue Beth said. Sue Beth was seven, so it was only fair that she got the better presents because she still believed in Santa Claus, and the folks had to put on a show. Willard was ten and figured this was probably the last year he got any toys at all. Come next Christmas, he’d be getting hand tools.

  Sue Beth held up her doll. It had a shriveled apple for a head. The way Momma told it, you cut little holes for the mouth and eyes, and then when the apple shriveled up and dried you had a face. Momma had tied some brown yarn to the stem for hair and then stitched together a few rags to make a dress.

  “What you gonna name it?” Daddy asked Sue Beth.

  “Dolly,” she said. Sue Beth had never had much imagination, which Willard figured was just as well. All imagination had ever done for him was cause him misery. He imagined all the in-town boys with their new sleds, their shotguns, their video games, and their big, fat stockings full of candy.

  “That’s a nice name,” Momma said, wiping her hands on her apron. She was cooking up the Christmas dinner—a tough, old Tom turkey that should have been killed three or four holidays back. Potatoes, cornbread, and some canned green beans would round out the meal, and there was a blackberry cobbler in the oven that made the house smell good, even over the sweaty stink of Grampap’s flannel underwear.

  Willard couldn’t help but notice Sue Beth’s bulging stocking. It hung from the clothesline since they didn’t have a fireplace mantel. The clothesline stretched across the living room, and you had to duck under it to get to the little bedrooms in the back of the house. Willard shared a room with his sister, and that was getting kind of awkward because he didn’t have any pajamas that fit.

  “What else did Santa bring you?” Daddy asked, but he said it like he wasn’t listening.

  “Willard got a ball,” she said.

  “Ain’t no ball.” He tossed the orange in the air and caught it.

  “How come I don’t got no orange ball?”

  “It ain’t a ball, it’s an orange,” he said.

  “Like an apple, except it’s orange,” Momma said.

  Sue Beth should have known what an orange was, even if they hardly ever bought them in the grocery store. That’s how they taught you the color in elementary school. They showed you a picture of an orange, and then the teacher said the word “orange.” But like all the other dirty tricks of school, you couldn’t count on it because the very next minute they’d show you a picture of a lemon and say “yellow” instead of “lemon.” Daddy said that was just the way of the world and that’s why you should never trust books.

  “How come I don’t get no orange?” Sue Beth asked with a whine in her voice.

  “Because they’re ‘spensive,” Momma said. “They come all the way from other countries, like Florida and Californey. Besides, you got an apple.”

  “When we was kids, we’d get one orange for the whole family,” Daddy said, resting for a second. “We’d slice it up eight ways. You kids don’t know how tough the times used to be up here in the mountains.”

  Actually, Willard did know because Daddy told that story about four times every Christmas, even when they didn’t have any oranges in their stockings. Daddy would go on about how Grampap used to carve toys for all the kids, and from the looks of the old man’s cracked and scarred hands, Willard believed him. But somehow, Grampap had managed to keep all his fingers and both his hands, unlike Daddy.

  “Why don’t you look in your stocking, Sue Beth?” Momma asked.

  Sue Beth grinned and hugged Dolly to her chest. The clothesline was a little above her reach, so she grabbed the toe of the old sock and yanked. It flopped loose, and an avalanche of peppermints and butterscotch came tumbling to the linoleum. Sue Beth squealed in delight. Willard watched one of the peppermints roll under Grampap’s chair.

  “Now look at this mess,” Momma said. “Help her, Willard.”

  Sue Beth knelt on the floor and gathered the candy. Besides the hard pieces wrapped in plastic, there were a few bits of foil that looked like chocolate. One of them had a picture of a reindeer on it. While Willard scraped the candy into a big pile, Sue Beth peeled a piece open. It was a chocolate Santa. She bit its head off.

  As Willard shoved her candy back into the stocking, he kept an eye on the piece that had disappeared under Grampap’s chair. When the sock was full, Willard passed it to his sister. It was so heavy she could barely lift it.

  “Time for dinner,” Momma said. “Willard, will you wake up Grampap?”

  “Reckon I better move the chainsaw,” Daddy said.

  “Just don’t start it in here,” she replied. “Last time, we about choked to death on the fumes.”

  “If you can’t fix it, you ought not eat it,” he said.

  “Well, just get it out of here so I can set the table.”

  While Daddy took the chainsaw to the shed, leavin
g the front door open long enough for some snow to blow in, Willard shook Grampap’s elbow. Grampap stopped snoring but didn’t move. His face was blank and he looked dead, but nothing unusual about that. Momma was busy at the stove, so Willard knelt down and reached under the chair. He raked through the dust and wadded-up paper and cigarette butts until he felt the piece of candy, and then he squirreled it away in his pocket.

  He gave Grampap’s shoulder a shove, and the old man jerked forward as if he were on wires, blinking and wheezing. “Whu…where…shot who?”

  “Time for Christmas dinner, Grampap,” Willard said.

  “Christmas?” He rubbed his cheek as if it belonged to someone else’s face and he wasn’t used to the wrinkles. “I didn’t even know it was winter yet.”

  “It happened sometime after Thanksgiving,” Momma said.

  “I got a dolly,” Sue Beth said, holding the apple-head doll out to Grampap.

  Grampap squinted at it with his milky eyes. “Apple head, huh? Whose hair it got on it?”

  “It’s yarn,” Momma said.

  “Well, that’s good.” He put in his teeth and his words were clearer now. “You don’t need to be messing around with no poppets.”

  “It’s not no puppet, it’s a doll,” Sue Beth said. She was used to Grampap not being able to hear too good.

  “A ‘poppet’ is what they call it when it’s got somebody’s hair on it,” Momma said. “In the old days, folks believed you could hurt people you didn’t like if you made a poppet out of them.”

  “In wasn’t just in the old days,” Grampap said. “When your daddy was eight, he spelled a neighbor who stole his fishing pole. Clancy Wheeler was his name, part of them Wheelers on the back side of Elk Knob.”

  “Clancy the school bus driver that only got three fingers?” Willard asked. He wondered why Clancy always looked at them funny when he picked them up in the mornings. Every time Willard stepped on board, it seemed like Clancy was flexing his mangled hand as if wanting to make a claw and strangle him.

  “Hush up, Grampap,” Momma said. “Don’t scare the kids on Christmas.”